Death Doesn't Want Us
by Shakespeare's Lemonade
Summary: Every night, Cutter dreams of the cage room. Every time it's different, except for one thing: Stephen always dies. Until one night, he doesn't.
1. Prologue: Visions of the Cage Room

"Death Doesn't Want Us"

Shakespeare's Lemonade

Summary: Every night, Cutter dreams of the cage room. Every time it's different, except for one thing: Stephen always dies. Until one night, he doesn't.

A/N: This was supposed to be a oneshot, but may end up being a very AU, multi-chapter fic if I decide to continue. It takes place sometime during the first three episodes of series three. I'm still in the middle of watching that season right now.

Thanks to my UK friends in the Underground Fanfictioners group for checking my spelling and dialogue to be sure it all sounded sufficiently not American. Let me know if there's anything I can work on to make the characters sound better or anything.

_Prologue: Visions of the Cage Room_

It haunts him every night in his dreams. Cutter hasn't been able to sleep the night through since he watched Stephen get torn to pieces in the cage room. He heard it more than he saw it, and his dreams are full of sounds more often than not.

Some nights, he watches longer than he did in reality. He can't tear his eyes away, no matter how hard he tries. He watches as the floor turns from dark grey cement to sticky blood red. He can't see Stephen, but Cutter knows he's already dead.

Some nights, Cutter doesn't watch. He didn't have the stomach for it when it really happened, so in a way, those dreams are worse. He hears the screeches and cries of all the carnivorous beasts as they tear into each other-and into Stephen.

Some nights, Cutter swears he can still hear Stephen screaming even after he bolts upright in bed.

He remembers when he's awake. Remembers that Stephen is dead, that he didn't see it happen, that Stephen didn't even scream once.

But that doesn't make the dreams any less real when he's living them. Cutter lives more in his dreams than when he's awake. Everyone can tell how distant he's become, but he doesn't care any more. The concept of tragedy is that it's unavoidable. A man's greatest strength is his strongest weakness. Stephen's desire for truth led him to believe anyone who told him what he wanted to hear. And Cutter was never good at telling people what they wanted to hear.

In dreams, sometimes Cutter tells Stephen he's sorry for letting this happen. Stephen never responds. He's either dead or dying by that point. He always dies. There's no escaping it. Cutter lives in his dreams, and in his dreams, Stephen dies every night.

Until one day, he doesn't.

There's no blood, no creatures, only Stephen standing in the middle of the cage room. His clothing is ripped in places, and Cutter can see deep scars on his skin, but they're old. Healed over. Cutter doesn't understand.

"You're dead," he says.

"I know," Stephen replies, and the look in his eyes is very much that of a man who stopped living a long time ago.

"Why are we here?" Cutter just wants Stephen to keep talking because he never talks in the dreams.

"Because you're dead too."

Then Cutter remembers. The explosion at the ARC. Helen.

He looks down and sees a hole in his shirt. There are bloodstains around the tattered edges, but the wound is closed.

"Helen shot me," Cutter deadpans.

Stephen smiles. Cutter realises that he hasn't seen laughter in his friend's eyes in a very long time. "Why am I not surprised?"

"So what is this? The afterlife?"

Stephen shrugs. "I think it's the future. Or maybe the past. Or something else entirely."

"You think?"

"I haven't been here that long."

"Felt like a long time to me."

"I suppose it did. I don't regret it, you know?"

"Dying, you mean?"

"Yeah. I think I see now where I went wrong."

"Trusting Helen?"

"Exactly. She did seem to be the only person still talking to me at the time."

"I'm sorry about that. I can't help thinking things could have been different."

Stephen's eyes light up as if he knows a secret. "I think they still can," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"I told you this place is... confusing. I think there may be a way out. A way back."

Cutter stares. His mouth might be hanging open. "Back from the dead?" he sputters.

Stephen has a look of dead seriousness. "After everything that's happened, changing the past, you shouldn't be surprised."

Cutter thinks about that for a moment. "You never believed me about Claudia."

"I didn't want to believe our lives could be dictated by random events millions of years ago. But if there's an alternate time line where Claudia Brown is Jenny Lewis, or vice versa, then there could be one where we're not _dead_."

"Maybe that's where we are right now." Cutter gestures around them. "Like a—parallel universe?"

"That's what I thought. But _should _we try to get back? Should we mess with the time line again?"

Cutter has to think about that. He's never wanted to screw up the natural order of things, but he can't help thinking that this isn't how things were supposed to turn out. Stephen isn't supposed to be dead.

Cutter sighs. "I don't know what damage we might do trying to get back to our old lives. But I can't stay here knowing that if we don't try to stop her, Helen will keep on manipulating history anyway. Right now, we're the only ones who know how mucked up things could really get."

Stephen nods with that trademark impassive look on his face. "That's what I thought. I suppose we look for the next anomaly and hop through it then?"

"That does sound like a plan you would come up with."

The two of them begin walking toward the open door. The one Stephen sealed shut with Cutter on the other side.

"There's another possibility though," Stephen says, almost casually.

"What's that?" Cutter asks.

"We could both be mad."

Cutter laughs genuinely for the first time in a very long time. "Then we've got nothing to lose, have we?"

Stephen smiles again, and they pass through the door, into the unknown.


	2. Travels of the Undead

**Thanks to the lovely Faye Dartmouth for being awesome and beta reading this chapter for me.**

**Chapter One "Travels of the Undead"**

It's one thing to say "let's change the past" but quite another to go about doing it. For one thing, there's no research on the subject. Everything is first hand experimentation. Which can be very dangerous. Less so if you're already dead.

That raises a whole other set of questions.

The moment Stephen and Cutter step through the doorway, they find themselves on the streets of London. Except it isn't the London they know. It looks the same as the place they left, but something is very wrong. Stephen watches carefully which has always been a gift of his. He notices that the people don't interact, don't even seem to see each other. He looks through store windows and sees clerks staring blankly past customers. He watches as people on the street brush against each other and don't seem to notice. Cars drive aimlessly around the block in circles.

No one sees the two men in dirty, torn, bloodstained clothing. No one cares.

"What is this place?" Cutter wonders aloud.

Stephen shrugs even though Cutter isn't looking at him. "I don't know."

Cutter stops on the pavement and turns to face Stephen. "You never left the cage room?"

Stephen meets Cutter's gaze. "I never had a reason to. Until you showed up I thought it was some kind of purgatory."

"You mean to say you spent all those months just sitting there?"

Stephen looks rather like a scolded child. "It didn't feel like months," he mumbles.

Cutter doesn't say any more, and Stephen doesn't expect him to. They carry on down the street, looking out for something they aren't yet sure of.

The truth is, Stephen doesn't really know why he didn't leave the cage room. Part of him doesn't think he deserved to, but when Cutter had showed up, it seemed like a good time to try. Maybe Stephen's co-dependent. That would explain a lot. Even though it didn't feel like that long in the cage room, he's had plenty of time to think about it. He never seems to do anything on his own. In the past, he waited for Cutter to make a decision and then carried it out. Things seemed to work best that way. Until he started to disagree with the decisions Cutter was making. Or thought he did. Then Helen took the opportunity to assert her influence over him. She knew he would fall for it all over again.

Stephen just wishes he could trust one person. Or that one person would trust him. He knows he doesn't deserve it, and now that he's dead, he probably shouldn't even be worried about things like this, but he is. He spent those months in the cage room thinking about everything that went wrong and how he could have done better. It wouldn't have fixed his relationships with Cutter and the rest of the team, but it might have kept him from alienating them completely.

Now, Stephen's not quite sure where he stands with Cutter. He died for the man—would do it again in a heartbeat—and that seems to have had an impact, but Stephen has always struggled to read the man he called his best friend.

Stephen isn't even sure why he suggested trying to get "back." He doesn't have anything to go back to. But Cutter does. And that's all that matters. Stephen can focus when he's working for Cutter because Cutter has always seemed worth the effort. Maybe Stephen doesn't have to be happy or even alive as long as he can help Cutter fix things. He can make amends. He can try.

Eventually, they find themselves at the edge of the city. There are no more people. They keep walking to nowhere in particular. Stephen wouldn't normally mind the silence, but normally, they aren't both dead.

But Stephen follows Cutter's lead. If Cutter doesn't feel the need to talk, Stephen doesn't either. Yes, he's beginning to wonder more and more about that co-dependent hypothesis. He's always relied on Cutter to tell him what he should do. That hadn't changed when Helen decided to ruin his life. Except that Cutter wasn't there to tell him what to do any more. Not really.

Maybe Stephen just needs to get out of his own way. He's never really known how to do that. He figures he might as well start trying though.

"Do we have a plan?" Stephen asks as they hike through a patch of woods he doesn't recognise, which is odd because he's been all over this area. Well, in his own time line, but he's dead now, so he shouldn't be too worried about it.

"This was your idea," Cutter replies, a hint of teasing in his tone.

Stephen has missed the teasing. "Was it?" He honestly doesn't remember. This universe, or whatever it is, seems strange that way.

"You said you thought there might be a way back. Where did you come up with that idea, anyway?"

"We're dead." That's enough explanation for Stephen, but Cutter seems to expect more. "There must be a reason we're both here."

"You could be right about that. But what if this is all there is?"

"Then why can we see each other, but no one else here seems to?"

"Good point. We should keep looking."

Stephen hadn't realised that's what they had been doing. "Are we going in any particular direction?"

"Yes."

**~oOo~**

Cutter wishes walking were more tiring. As it is, he doesn't seem to expend any energy at all. He doesn't feel hungry or winded from the long day. He doesn't even know how long they've been walking. The sky maintains a sick, greyish tint. Time is standing still. It may well have something to do with being dead.

He tries not to think about that.

If only he were exhausted, Cutter would have a reason not to talk to Stephen. Over the past few months, he had come up with long lists of things he would have said if he had the chance. Now that he does, the words won't come. Cutter knows this is what drove them apart in the first place. His indifference had left Stephen vulnerable. He knows it now. He knows he should start the process of working their way back to some semblance of friendship.

He just can't seem to get the words out.

Stephen doesn't exactly help. He's too comfortable with silence, and Cutter has always used that as an excuse not to work out their issues. They're two grown men, after all; they don't have to talk about their feelings.

But Cutter can't help thinking Stephen died because he wouldn't talk to him, and he can't take that again. Maybe they're dead now. Maybe they'll never get back. Cutter can't take the risk.

"I don't blame you, you know," he says, not quite sure what he means by that.

"For what?" Stephen asks. He sounds almost hopeful. If Stephen has the capacity for hope.

"Any of it," Cutter says. It's not enough, but he doesn't really know what he's trying to say. "I know you meant to do the right thing."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions—and adverbs."

"Obviously. We're here, aren't we? And was that Stephen King?"

"True. I think so."

"I don't think this is hell, though." Cutter stops walking. They're so deep in the forest, he doesn't know where they are now. "I don't think we'd be able to have this conversation if it were."

"Fine. Purgatory. It's not as catchy."

"That could be good for us. I have a feeling death doesn't want us."

"What exactly is this feeling based on?"

"You said you thought there was a way out. Now why would you say that?"

"I have no idea."

"Exactly my point. Nothing here makes sense. But we remember. We know we're not really gone."

Stephen looks absolutely miserable, and Cutter is confused. Stephen shouldn't be upset by these things.

"What's the matter?" Cutter frowns.

"You remember," Stephen says. "But I've started to forget things. Little things that come back after a bit. I don't know why. I can't remember how long I was in that room before you came. I can't remember the things I said to you. I'm starting to forget how we even got here. Wherever here is."

Cutter's eyes widen a little. "That could be why the people in the city didn't see us or each other. Something about this place makes them forget. Which means we need to get out soon."

"How?"

"I think your proposition of jumping through the next anomaly we find might be the best idea."

"What if there are none, and we're stuck here?"

Cutter shrugs. "No one will be able to accuse us of not trying."

Stephen's eyebrows knit together. "No one will know the difference. We're dead."

"You keep reminding me."

"Did you forget?"

"No, I—let's just keep moving. I think we're getting close."

"Close to what? You have no idea where we are."

"I do too know where we are." Cutter seems a little offended at Stephen's doubt. "The Forest of Dean. Somewhere. I was looking for the original Anomaly site."

Stephen gives Cutter an exasperated look. "Then you were going the wrong way."

"I thought you said you forgot."

"It comes back periodically. I said that, didn't I?"

"Something to that effect, yes. Lead the way then."

Stephen starts off in the opposite direction they had been travelling, and Cutter thinks this is a lot like the old days. He used to follow Stephen all over the place, in the woods, in the city, even in large buildings. He can't help the small measure of hope that wells up in his heart as they walk thorough the misty, grey woods.

**~oOo~**

Stephen is used to waiting. In this world where nothing ever seems to change, it's almost easier. He doesn't get hungry or thirsty or tired. He just sits and waits.

He might be more comfortable if this place didn't hold so many painful memories for him. After the last time, he had hoped never to return to the Forest of Dean. That was the time everything started to fall apart for him. Or maybe Stephen had been falling apart all his life.

The absence of sleep creates an awkward silence. The sky never gets dark. There are no birds or insects. Stephen knows that's wrong. There's something frightening about this world, and he can't wait to get out of it.

As time wears on, if there is any time here, Stephen begins to feel an indefinable dread. What if they never get out? What if this is death?

He's starting to forget again. Forget the cage room, forget what led him there. Yet he still knows how important it was, how it defined him, even in death. Stephen rubs his eyes and wishes he could blame the confusion on exhaustion.

Cutter has been sitting beside him for hours, days—Stephen doesn't know. They don't speak as they watch the middle distance between themselves and the trees further off. Stephen tells himself he doesn't mind the silence. He likes it. He's used to it.

In truth, it feels like dying all over again. He remembers now. He didn't hear the screeches of the predators as they feasted on him. But he felt the blood pouring out all over the floor. He remembers pain. This feels like that.

Cutter shifts his position, and Stephen can't remember how long it's been since either of them moved. "Are you all right?" he asks.

Stephen looks at him in shock. "What?"

"Your breathing was becoming more rapid, and you hadn't blinked in sixty seconds."

Stephen stared for a long time. "I was thinking about dying." There's no need to lie.

"Why?" Cutter sounds alarmed.

"Just that it was a lot like this."

Cutter looks about them, confused. "A quiet forest?"

"Quiet. It was quiet."

"Oh." Cutter almost leaves it at that. Then he suggests, "We could talk about... something."

Stephen laughs humourlessly. "What's there to talk about?"

"I suppose you haven't been doing much lately."

"You have."

"Right. Well, there's... Oh, we hired an archaeological expert. Dr. Page. You'd like her. Um... Connor was trying to build a device to close anomalies."

Stephen brightened a little. "That could be very useful."

"If it works. It wasn't finished when I... died."

"You'll get used to it. Being dead."

"I'm not so sure about that. This whole thing is—peculiar."

"How nothing changes? How we forget things?"

"All of it. No wildlife. The silence."

"Maybe people don't come back from the dead. Maybe we stay here."

"But there are so many things that don't make sense. Why did you end up in the cage room? Why did I? I didn't die there, not for lack of trying."

"Are you really sore at me for _not_ letting you die?"

Cutter laughs, and Stephen smiles back at him. This can't be hell if they can talk like this, if they can joke and feel camaraderie again. Stephen realizes he doesn't forget that. He doesn't forget the important things.

"I guess not," Cutter says. "I was furious at you for a moment. But what you did—it's what we'd all hope to if called upon. Did I thank you before?"

"I don't remember."

"Then I will now." Cutter puts his hand on Stephen's shoulder. "Thank you, Stephen. For dying for me."

Stephen doesn't know what to say, but thankfully, he doesn't have to say anything. The anomaly opens, and they turn to face it, wide-eyed, and somehow, not surprised.


	3. Ghosting Through History

**Thanks again to Faye Dartmouth for beta reading. I really appreciate those of you who are reading this story. It's kind of new territory for me in pretty much every sense of the phrase. So, let me know what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, suggestions, criticism, anything; I'm all ears. Or eyes, since I'll be reading it on a computer screen.**

**Chapter Two "Ghosting Through History"**

They're in a grassy field. Cutter looks around, but he can't find any familiar landmarks. They could be anywhere. Any time. He turns to Stephen who is also taking stock of their situation. He has that look in his eyes that says he's forming a plan. Cutter can't imagine where he's getting his information for that.

"Do you smell that?" Stephen asks.

"Smell what?" Cutter doesn't notice anything in particular.

"It doesn't smell like home."

Cutter inhales again. Something does seem off, but he can't say what. "Are you sure you remember what home smells like?"

"Yes."

Stephen starts walking away from the anomaly. Cutter has no choice but to follow, not even thinking of going back.

If anything, this world does seem more real than the last. There are birds and insects and the sky changes as the day wears on. It appears to be late afternoon. It's overcast, but thankfully not too cold. Cutter notices these things for the first time since showing up in the cage room. He feels alive again.

After a bit of a hike across the rolling hills that spread out before them, Cutter notices something else. He's hungry. He can feel the exertion of walking at Stephen's enthusiastic pace. This concerns him as much as it excites. They may be alive now, but that means they'll need food and shelter and rest, and there don't appear to be many opportunities for that in this world.

But Cutter waits to voice his worries. They could just be somewhere on the countryside. Civilisation might not be far away. If the fauna is any indication, there must at least be food and water somewhere nearby.

The silence now is a bit less uncomfortable than before. The animal noises and the wind help with that. It feels more like an invigorating trek across the moors than an attempt to come back from the dead. Though, Cutter thinks, he wouldn't know what that feels like, this being the first time he's tried.

Time begins to have meaning again. Dusk falls, and Cutter thinks now might be a good time to say what's been on his mind.

"We need to find food and shelter." He knows Stephen knows that, but he wants to be involved in decision making process at this point.

"That's why we're moving downhill," Stephen says.

"We are?"

"Do your toes hurt?"

"Yes. Why?"

"That's because we're going downhill. There's more likely to be water and settlements that way."

"And if it gets dark before we reach these hypothetical settlements?"

"We're getting close."

"How do you know?"

Stephen stops suddenly and turns to look at Cutter. "You've never questioned me about this before."

Cutter realises what he's been doing, and he feels bad. But there's something else. He's never been this concerned about survival, never doubted Stephen's skills even when he doubted everything else.

"I've never been dead before," he says, as if that explains it.

"So that's causing random personality shifts?" Stephen asks, defensively.

Cutter doesn't know how to respond. "Let's just keep going."

"Good idea."

Stephen starts off again, and Cutter can practically feel the condescension. Perhaps being alive again is having adverse effects on both of them.

**~oOo~**

It's almost too dark to see when Stephen notices lights in the distance. He picks up the pace a little, even though Cutter has already complained about how fast they're going. But there's something wrong. Stephen stops, and Cutter almost trips over him in the dark.

"Bloody—what are you doing?" Cutter snaps.

"That light look strange to you?" Stephen asks, ignoring the his friend's moodiness.

"No. It look like light. We should hurry."

"It's not artificial."

"Meaning?"

Stephen had hoped Cutter would come to the obvious conclusion himself. "It's firelight. We're not in our time."

"You mean to tell me we've come out in the past?" Cutter sounds disappointed and exhausted.

"That's what it looks like." Really, Stephen doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. "What do you want to do?"

Cutter sighs. "We still need food and a place to stay. We'll have to risk it."

Stephen is very uncomfortable with the idea, but he doesn't say so. "We should try not to attract too much attention to ourselves, though."

"Definitely," Cutter agrees.

Neither of them wants to alter the past. They can't obliterate their future before they even get there.

Stephen continues to lead the way, though he is somewhat less comfortable with the set up now. As terrible as Cutter is with social interaction, he had always had more patience with people than Stephen. And after what may have been months in solitude, Stephen isn't looking forward to meeting new people—especially if they happen to be from the middle ages.

As they approach what looks like a small village, Stephen lets Cutter move ahead of him. The place looks quiet, as if everyone has gone to bed, but there are a few people moving about between the small houses. Up close, it's clear that they have not returned to life in their own time. The houses are made of rough lumber with thatched roofs. The road through the centre of town is not so much a road as a swath of beaten dirt criss-crossed with wagon wheel ruts.

Stephen isn't sure why, but something about this place feels wrong, like a film set, a façade. Maybe this is just how time travel feels. Undead time travel. Or whatever.

Cutter stops in the middle of the road, and Stephen sees why. Someone is approaching them from what appears to be the town's largest building. It's an older man in a long brown cloak. His hair is receding and his beard almost reaches his belt. He carries a walking stick in one hand, and firelight flickers from a small torch in the other.

"You are here," he says. It's English, but it sounds different.

"You're expecting us?" Cutter asks. Stephen can see his wide eyes in the torchlight.

"Come in from the cold." The man gestures with his walking stick toward the building he came from. It does look warm and inviting.

Cutter follows the man, and while Stephen is suspicious of the whole thing, he goes along in silence. He'll follow Cutter into hell itself. It's always been that way.

**~oOo~**

Cutter feels Stephen's apprehension even as he tries to hide his own. As kind as the old man's invitation seems to be, it doesn't make sense. Here they are, two strangers with strange clothing and voices, still covered in their own blood, scarred too deeply to hide.

The man doesn't seem to notice. He leads them into a brightly lit building. Cutter thinks it may be the town hall or equivalent. Inside is a long rectangular room full of thick round tables. At the ends of the room are two massive fireplaces with hearths wide enough to sleep on. The floor is made from planks with bits of straw scattered about. Mangy looking dogs sleep by the fireplaces.

The hall is empty of people, save a small group of old men at a table near the wall. They all have large tankards of some kind of ale. They don't seem terribly interested as the first man leads Cutter and Stephen over to them.

He stops as they reach the table and turns to face the guests. "Long have we, the village elders, awaited you. Yet our patience must endure a longer interval, for you are weary and hungry. Eat here." He gestures to a table nearby where Cutter notices a pot of what looks like vegetable stew. "Then will we impart to you our troubles."

Not wanting to offend a generous host with questions, Cutter nods and moves over to the indicated table, which he notices is out of earshot of the group of elders. Once again, Stephen follows, but Cutter knows he does not like their situation. Right now, though, food seems more important than anything.

They eat in silence for a while. The food is less flavourful than they are used to, but it does the job. There are no utensils, so they eat with their hands. Cutter notices that Stephen keeps his eyes on the old men, even as he nearly inhales his supper.

As the gnawing hunger begins to wear down, Stephen is the first to speak. "What do you think he meant by 'troubles'?" His voice is low and dark.

"I don't know," Cutter replies. He honestly has no idea. "He seems to think we're here to help with something."

"Where would he get that idea?"

"Maybe we just look helpful?" It's a joke, but Stephen isn't in the mood for humour.

"We look frightful. He didn't care. He knew we were coming."

"I suppose they'll explain it all soon."

"What if it's some kind of trap?"

Cutter understands Stephen's concerns, but he's getting tired of questions he can't answer. "Then we'll just keep our eyes open. There's not much else we can do."

Stephen doesn't seem to like that answer, but he falls silent as he finishes the last of the food in his bowl. He's eating more slowly and deliberately now. Cutter just knows he's wondering if the food is poisoned. Not that there would be a point to that, but Stephen might be a little paranoid. Of anyone, he surely has the right to be.

Cutter finds that his appetite has significantly diminished since his little talk with Stephen, and now he waits for the old man to return. Looking around the room some more, Cutter notices a door at the far end. There is a long counter along that side of the room as well, and behind it are barrels and more empty tankards. Cutter is suddenly reminded of "Beowulf" and his barely passing marks in English Literature. He wonders if Sarah would know more about what time they've found themselves in. He realises it can't be that far back because the old man wasn't speaking Old English. It must at least be after the Romans invaded England—or was it the Normans? Cutter can't remember who or when that was. He thinks Stephen might know, but he doesn't ask.

It's all just as well because the old man returns and calls for someone to take away the empty dishes. A serving maid appears. She doesn't say anything or make eye contact with anyone as she picks up the bowls. Then the old man leads Cutter and Stephen over to the table where the elders have been speaking in hushed tones the whole time. He directs them to two empty chairs but remains standing.

"My friends, the prophecy has been fulfilled," the old man says.

Cutter begins to think this might be the start of a bad fantasy film.

"We have waited long for the coming of those who will defeat the beast," the old man goes on.

Beast? Cutter's mind is racing. They have a creature problem. That's why he and Stephen showed up in this time. A prophecy could be explained by someone going back in time. But who?

The old man looks at Cutter. "Tonight, you will rest in our hall." He gestures around the room. "At dawn you will travel north to the woods. There you will find the creature that has slain so many of our young men. Whatever weapons and supplies we can provide will be yours."

"What kind of beast?" Stephen asks. Cutter is a bit surprised that he got to the question first.

"It is like a bear," one of the other men said. "Yet far greater than any bear we have seen in all our days."

"Probably prehistoric," Cutter says. "There must be an anomaly in the woods."

Stephen nods, and all the elders stare at them, confused but Cutter's terms.

"There are doorways," Cutter explains. "Between different times in history. That's how we got here. This bear creature must have come through one of those doorways."

The men still seem confused, and more than a little unsettled, but they say no more on it. The first man, clearly the leader, leans on his walking stick.

"What does it eat?" Stephen asks.

"Everything," a third man says. "Sheep and cattle, people when we they get too close."

"Have you tracked it at all? Do you know its habits?"

The leader shakes his head. "The hunting parties were decimated, and none of the survivors have been able to tell us where to find the beast. There is a young man who will go with you on your journey. You will meet him and learn all you need to know in the morning. Now, you must rest."

The old men all rise from the table, and Cutter and Stephen follow suit. The leader gestures to the corner of the room where some thin mats have been laid on the floor near the fireplace. It doesn't look like the nicest place to sleep, but it's probably the best they have.

The old men leave, and Cutter moves over to their designated sleeping area. He sits on the hearth to remove his shoes. That's when he notices Stephen still standing by the table, arms crossed. It's darker now that the men have put out the torches, and only the light of the smouldering embers in the fireplace shows the scowl on Stephen's face.

"You'll have to sleep eventually," Cutter says.

"I know that," Stephen replies. "It's just been a while."

"I think you'll remember how."

Stephen moves closer to the corner of the room. "Does none of this give you pause?"

"I don't think we have room for hesitation here." Cutter sets his shoes on the warm stones. "If there's an anomaly in those woods, we need to find it."

"I know that. But I don't like this. What did they mean by a prophecy? Who could have known we would be here?"

"Someone must have come back. Maybe even one of us. This whole time travel thing gives me a headache."

"Is that all? Not the fact that we came back from the dead and people were expecting us?"

"There's not much we can do about it right now."

"We should just go find the anomaly now."

"In the dark? With no supplies or weapons? That sounds stupid and reckless, even for you." He shouldn't say that, but Cutter is tired and confused.

"And what if we get stuck here?" Stephen's voice raises. "What if the anomaly closes before we get there?"

"It's been open for a long time. It can last one more night."

"You don't know that."

"No. You're right. I don't. But I do know that it's a risk we'll have to take because trying to find it in the dark with no guidance whatsoever is a much greater risk."

"Fine." Stephen flops down on the mat, not bothering to take off his shoes. "If I get fleas, I'm blaming you."

Cutter smiles. "If you survive to complain about it, I think I can live with that."


	4. into the Darkness

**I meant to update yesterday, but then I was at the baseball field all day. We have the college world series tournament here ever spring, so we went to watch some games. My favorite teams lost, and it rained, but it was fun anyway. More to the point, thank you to Faye Dartmouth for beta reading and to anyone out there who's reading. I'd love to know what you think.**

**Chapter Three "Into the Darkness"**

Cutter wakes because he's cold. For a second, he thinks he's on a camping trip with Stephen, and he wonders how he was coerced into that. Then he remembers. He's in the past. He has to go fight a prehistoric bear. He was dead yesterday. Or whenever that was.

He opens his eyes and sees the dimly lit hall. Light seeps in through cracks in the plank walls. The fire has died completely, and Cutter realises the other reason he woke. There is movement to his right, and he turns to see that Stephen is already up, and someone has left fresh clothes for them.

Cutter watches, mesmerised for a moment by the latticework of scars across Stephen's back and arms. Even though his t-shirt hadn't accomplished much as shredded as it was, the effect was even more striking without it. Thankfully, Cutter realises he's staring before Stephen turns around.

"This feels like sandpaper," Stephen says as he pulls the rough brown tunic over his head.

"I'd say it's an improvement," Cutter replies, sitting up from his position on the floor.

"I don't think I'll be taking my fashion cues from Medieval trends."

"I don't think you take fashion cues from anywhere."

"It's not as if giant prehistoric bears care what I'm wearing."

Cutter stands and reaches for his shoes. "No, but people do, and you said yourself, you looked frightful."

"I said we looked frightful. I was thinking more the creepy hairstyle and bullet hole, but whatever."

"And that's worse than—" Cutter halts.

"Than what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

Stephen looks at him curiously. "You think you're going to offend me by mentioning that I look like I got tossed into a wood chipper?"

Cutter winces at the image. "I didn't mean to bring it up."

"Why not? We both died. It's not like we're going to forget any time soon."

"No. No, we certainly are not."

**~oOo~**

Stephen doesn't like the Middle Ages. And it's not even because he has to sleep on the floor or the lack of indoor plumbing. No, Stephen likes roughing it as much as anyone, but what he doesn't like is being required to wear something that didn't come out of his closet. Contrary to what most people think, all of his clothing is chosen with specific comfort and utility concerns in mind. Stephen likes flannel. Stephen likes cargo pants. He does not like linen, or whatever this is. It makes him want to kill something—which is probably a good thing, considering the task ahead.

Giant prehistoric bear.

Stephen can focus in spite of the hellish clothing. He has a job to do, and it's been a while, but he's more than ready. After dying in silence at the teeth and talons of vicious predators, he's ready for a fight. He's ready to go home.

The village is only just awakening as Stephen and Cutter exit the hall. However, there is a small group of men gathered at the far end of the road, opposite of the direction Stephen and Cutter entered from the night before. The leader of the elders is there along with some younger men. One of them sits astride a horse, and Stephen is certain he can't be more than fifteen years old.

The chief elder notices Stephen and Cutter's approach and comes to meet them, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

"Your journey will not be far," he says. "But I fear it will test your strength. Olan will show you the path you must take. If you defeat the beast, I believe you will find your way home."

Stephen eyes the boy, Olan, suspiciously, but doesn't say anything about it. "What kind of weapons do you have?" he asks instead.

The chief elder shows them over to the group of men waiting by the horses. They have bows and arrows—the craftsmanship of which is questionable—and one sword, which probably cost more than the whole village was worth. They try to give Cutter the sword, but he hands it off to Stephen, taking a small knife instead. Stephen also takes a bow. Inferior quality or not, he's better with long range weapons.

Olan watches them in silence, fingering his own hunting knife. He's nervous, and that makes Stephen uncomfortable. He doesn't want to be responsible for a kid dying. He'd rather it were just him and Cutter, but since neither of them have ridden a horse through Medieval England, a guide is necessary.

Before they leave, the chief elder makes a big speech about brave heroes sallying forth into the darkness, and Stephen just wants to get away from there. He wants to find this bear, kill it, and go home. He's never wanted anything so much before, and it scares him in a way he could never admit to anyone. What if he there is no anomaly? What if it closed a long time ago? What if there never was one, and it's all a cruel joke?

As they ride out from the village, Stephen tries to shake off these thoughts. He has a mission for the first time in a long time, and that means something.

Olan isn't much for conversation, though Cutter tries to get him to talk about his life. He seems more focused on getting to their destination as quickly as possible.

They stop mid-morning for something to eat. Their saddle bags have been packed with dried meat and skins of something that isn't quite water, but tastes more like water than anything else. Olan doesn't speak, but gestures for them to hurry.

It's nearing afternoon when they reach the woods. Olan is noticeably more nervous than before as they begin to ride under a canopy of fir trees.

"How far is it from here?" Cutter asks.

Olan shakes his head. "I do not know. They never let me come this far before."

Stephen frowns. "Why'd they send you if you've never been here?"

"There is no one else."

Stephen doesn't ask any more questions. He wonders if all the men in that village are too old to make the journey or so young that they shouldn't have to.

**~oOo~**

Cutter notices Stephen has been in a mood all morning. He isn't sure if it has anything to do with their conversation in the hall or just their general circumstances. He notices the way Stephen looks at Olan, the way he analyses him for weaknesses. It's not a calloused exercise. Stephen is looking for ways to protect Olan. Cutter realises that he does that with everyone. When they would come up against a dangerous creature, Stephen would determine how dangerous it was, and how much danger each member of the team would be in. He used his findings to protect Connor and Abby—even Cutter himself. Perhaps more so. Stephen would protect them all with his life. He had.

Cutter can't let himself think that may be the case again. He won't let Stephen die. It's just not an option. They can't have come this far to fail.

The forest is dark and foreboding as all scary places should be. A few miles in, Stephen begins to walk ahead of them on foot, searching for signs of the bear.

"I thought you were the leader," Olan says quietly as Cutter rides beside him.

Cutter almost laughs. "Stephen is a master tracker," he says. "I'm better at planning."

"Then what is your plan?"

"We track the bear. Stephen will know when we're getting close."

"But many men have died searching for the beast. What will you do to stop it from killing you?"

"Your village, they're mostly farmers, yes?"

"Aye."

"Stephen is highly trained with weapons, and we've fought creatures like this before."

"I apologise. I did not know."

"No need to be sorry, lad. It's good to be curious."

Olan pauses for a moment. "That being the case, I do not know your name."

"You can call me Cutter."

"That doesn't sound like a warrior's name."

Cutter smiles softly. "No it doesn't."

Suddenly, the horses come to a halt, and Cutter realises that Stephen has stopped ahead of them.

"What is it?" Cutter asks in a loud whisper.

Stephen turns back toward Cutter and Olan. "Fresh dung," he says.

Olan makes a face.

"How far?" Cutter asks.

"Not an hour away. He veered off the path here." Stephen points to an slight indentation in the undergrowth. "We'll have to follow him on foot from here."

"But one of us must guard the horses," Olan says. "Or the beast may come back for them."

"I'll stay," Cutter says. He knows Stephen doesn't want to leave the kid alone.

Stephen nods and gestures for Olan to follow him into the trees. Cutter holds the reins of the three horses and hopes he made the right decision.

**~oOo~**

Stephen has never liked working with others in the field. He tolerates Cutter, but he really prefers to be alone. But traipsing through an unfamiliar forest with a teenager has to top his list of things he never wanted to do in his life, nor ever wants to do again. Right up there with dying and dealing with Helen Cutter.

Olan really isn't that difficult, though. He's quiet, attentive, and curious at the right times. He asks Stephen why he takes one direction instead of another. It's annoying, but the kid might actually learn something.

Then he says something Stephen never expected. "Your friend thinks well of you."

"What?" Stephen stops in his tracks.

Olan seems surprised, as if it should be obvious. "Most leaders do not praise their men like he does."

"He'd never say it to my face."

"Your face?"

"To me. He'd never compliment me directly."

"Does he need to?"

"No. I mean—let's keep moving."

For someone out of another century, the kid is quite perceptive. Stephen realises that he's always needed Cutter's approval, even when he had argued against him. Stephen had only wanted to be right because he wanted Cutter to think he was right. Cutter's is the only opinion that really matters.

Fortunately, Stephen is granted a reprieve from Olan's questions and his own tumultuous thoughts when he spots a dark brown mass through the trees.

"There it is," he whispers, ducking pulling Olan down to the ground with him.

Stephen feels Olan begin to shake at the sight of the creature. He begins to think this might not go well.

"How good a shot are you?" Stephen asks.

"What?" Olan stares at him.

"With your bow."

"Oh, decent I suppose. I shoot the crows out of the fields sometimes."

Stephen smirks. "Good enough. I want you to climb that tree, and when I give the signal, start shooting at it. Don't waste your arrows, but try to hit it as much as you can. It won't kill it. They aren't sharp enough, but that will distract it enough for me to get close."

Olan looks positively terrified. "You could be killed."

"It's all right. I've been killed before."

Stephen leaves him there, gaping, and begins to circle around the left side of the small clearing where he spotted the bear. As he gets closer, he looks back to see Olan climbing the tree like he said.

The creature itself is bigger than any bear Stephen has ever heard of. It has a dark brown coat with strange light patches in it. Stephen can't see its head from this angle, but he notices that its feet are the size of basketballs with claws protruding dangerously. Maybe his plan was a little hasty. It was too late to back out now.

Stephen slowly pulls out his sword and uses the sun to reflect back toward Olan. Just as planned, arrows begin hurtling toward the beast, and in pain, it searches for the source of the annoyance.

Stephen takes the opportunity to move in closer. He adjusts his grip on the sword and waits for the right moment. An arrow hits the bear right in the eye, and Stephen takes his moment. He gets a running jump off a fallen log and comes down with his sword raised on the back of the beast. As he lands, he slams the blade down between the bear's shoulders, as hard as he can.

For a moment, there is silence.

Then the bear rears back and throws Stephen to the ground. Unable to breathe for a moment, Stephen is trapped. The bear comes at him, ready for a strike that will surely kill Stephen on impact. Another arrow hits the bear's paw, causing its blow to lose some momentum, but Stephen still feels the claws rake across his abdomen, sending searing pain through his whole body.

But the bear is distracted. It turns to face a new enemy. Olan now stands at the edge of the clearing, bow drawn and ready to fire. The bear charges. An arrow goes into its other eye. It doesn't slow down.

Stephen tries to shout for Olan to run, but his voice fails him. He can't see what happens next, but he hears something whirling through the air, and it hits flesh. The bear goes down with a ground shaking thump.

It's over, and Stephen can't breathe.

Before he knows what's happening he sees Cutter, hovering over him. For a moment, he thinks it might be a dream, a dying hallucination.

"Stephen!" Cutter's voice has the same tone and volume as the day he begged Stephen to open the door.

"C... Cutter?" Stephen finds his voice, though it hurts to talk. He's bleeding a lot now. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought to myself, damn the horses, my friend needs help."

"You're... an idiot."

"I know. But I found it, Stephen. The anomaly. I'm going to take you home now."

"Nick..." Stephen gasps. "Forgive me."

"What are you talking about? You haven't done anything wrong."

"No... you have to forgive me... for Helen. Please."

"There's no need to drag that up. It's over and done. Now if you can't get up, I'm going to carry you."

"Please..." Stephen can't think any more. He doesn't know what he's asking. The world spins around him and warm blood sticks to his skin and the itchy Medieval clothing.


End file.
